Post by Grimoire Xmyles on Apr 15, 2018 19:30:43 GMT -5
The cool April night did little to quell the stifling atmosphere in the conference room at the police precinct. Although the Fathom City Police Department was not exactly well known for its stellar record, that did not mean that there were not good and hard working men giving their heart and soul into their work. Lance Bale was a diamond in the rough, the last trickle of integrity that the city possessed. He was the last of his kind, a relic that represented the last drops of what it meant to be a cop before it got swallowed up by the monster, like Elizabeth Taylor and old Hollywood.
Next to him stood Maxwell Constantine, a no holds barred man who had the subtlety of a chainsaw in a china shop. In between spitting out tobacco and stuffing himself with cinnamon glazed donuts, Lance's right hand man observed the tall shadowy silhouette that stood a few feet away from him, Lance and two other rookies in the room. The presence of The Mightiest Hero in Fathom made Maxwell alert, like a dog about to protect its owner because like the rest of the Force, he saw the vigilante as a dangerous freak with deep psychological issues that made him a ticking time bomb. He was a man who did not conform to regulations but enjoyed to impose his own brand of justice. For Maxwell, this iteration of Mighty Kid was no different than any of the psychos he had sent to Markmill over the years.
This was not Jack Tyler; the quote-unquote ‘original’ Mighty Kid. This was someone who had taken the mantle since Tyler disappeared from the city several years ago. There were rumours that he had briefly returned to foil a Yakuza plot alongside Bill Blakk, yet searching the derelict ‘Heroes For Hire’ building yielded no evidence. This reincarnation had been affectionate dubbed ‘Mighty Kid II.’
All three men gazed down at the telephone which had a beeping red light over one of the extension lines. They all knew who was holding on the other side of that phone line, but no one dared to pick up the line just yet, not until it was safe to do so and treated the source of the call as if it was toxic and cancerous which in essence, it was.
"He's got Markmill under his control, again." The last word was like trying to swim in molasses. Acknowledging that Markmill had once again been lassoed by Grimoire Xmyles was like admitting his short comings as a city leader.
"I thought he burned that place to the ground." Mighty Kid queried in a gruff voice. "Did he give any specifics?"
"He has a hostage. Female, twenty six years old. He says he wants you to show up at the appointed time or he will handle her… personally." Maxwell said the last word with force. He couldn't avoid that the circumstances were starting to resemble a very familiar scenario. One that everybody in the Department; especially Bale were trying to forget. She was the same age as his own daughter too. Bale had seen a lot in his career as a rookie, private, detective, lieutenant and commissioner. He had seen so many things and so many people but this time, he could not do anything but help feel a little emotionally invested.
"Anything else?" the Defender of Justice asked. Bale and Constantine looked at each other.
"Yeah, he sent you this." Maxwell pushed a shoe box sized container onto the table and pushed it towards the superhero. A black gloved hand reached out and lifted the lid and after a few seconds, he shut it down and nodded.
"Keep the cops at hand," Mighty Kid ordered.
"It's you he wants. Why does he have to involve the blue?" Bale said angrily before he took a puff of his pipe. "Damn. I can't just sit back now knowing that psycho has a hostage."
"No, if he sees you, then it would only make him angry." Mighty Kid said sharply.
"Angry? Why are you so concerned over how clowny will react, Kid? We are going to save the girl, not him." Constantine said in a snide fashion. "Who cares if he gets upset?"
"You should care. If Grimoire feels you are threatening to interrupt him in the middle of his 'scene' he will not hesitate to take the girl out. It will be his punch line, her death and your fault." Mighty Kid said as he emphasized each scenario with a tone that lowered in timbre each time.
Bale digested the words and in the end, conceded that it was perhaps the best thing to do. He had never had experience handling the killer clown one on one and he went at Mighty Kid's word. Mighty Kid was skilled in handling the clown like a ring leader was to a lion.
"I still would like to have some special units nearby, just in case." The Commissioner said.
"Don't underestimate Grimoire Xmyles, Lance. He's unpredictable and if you don't play along with his game, the results can be deadly." Mighty Kid said darkly. Maxwell scoffed.
"I ain't taking any orders from any clown! I get on my knees for no one!" Constantine said bitterly. Mighty Kid just narrowed his eyes as the Lieutenant went on. "This is bullshit, and you're startin' to sound like the Clown, Kid, no offense…" Lance sighed. He knew that Constantine was like this because he had issues with control and some jealousy. He did not like that The Mightiest Hero in Fathom got special treatment but he could not deny that The Mightiest Hero in Fathom was at least an asset for slippery situations and this was ideal.
Mighty Kid ignored the stubborn cop. Mighty Kid and Bale glanced at one another and proceeded to press 'speakerphone'. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"Grimoire?" Mighty Kid said finally into the machine.
"No, it's Clay Aiken!" The falsetto responded which then erupted into a crescendo of giggles.
"What do you want, Xmyles?" Mighty Kid growled into the speakerphone. The clown's cackles subsided momentarily He leaned in closer. Perhaps the background noise could give him some more hints.
"I want a pay raise, a three month vacation to French Polynesia and a pony, but most importantly I want you to refill my dance card because you got me waiting here an eternity. Where were you? On your coffee break?" The Phobia said busting into another fit of hysterical laughter. Mighty Kid let out a low, deep growl. He was starting to lose it with the Clown. "Your voice is so soothing to me, it is like music, Kid. Did you know that?" Grimoire said in a soft tone. Constantine winced when he heard the clown's voice.
"Stop joking and tell me what your game is!" the superhero snapped
"Oh yes, games, the games I play and games you lose. Kid, life is all about games," Grimoire said with a chuckle. "And this game requires a partner. I thought Lancelot would have told you. I want my favourite rat for this. After all, what is Harry Potter without his broomstick?"
"You have my undivided attention, Grimoire." Mighty Kid said in a monosyllabic pattern. It was always like that. Grimoire would be putty, Mighty Kid was iron.
"No, no, no. This is not how we play. I want you Kid, but not over some nineteenth century mechanical communication device. I want you here in the flesh." The Phobia said in a sour note. He petted the device in his hand with his long, bony hands.
"And if I refuse?" Mighty Kid asked knowing even though he knew there were no refusals where the Clown was concerned.
"If you are not here by two thirty then I am going to make haggis out of the trachea and lungs of the beautiful specimen sitting before me, okay?" the clown crooned before he let out a small subset of giggles. On that note, he hung up.
It was the same old dance but the steps would be different each time. It always was. On that note, Mighty Kid silently turned and headed out of the open window. Goodbyes were never his style.
"What now?" Constantine asked stuffing a bear claw in his mouth. Bale exchange looks between Maxwell, Mighty Kid and the shoe box on his desk and wondered how the detective could still have an appetite. The Commissioner opened the box and retrieved a small liquid-filled glass container. Floating within the green fluid was a severed middle finger with a platinum ring, with the initials M.C., U. of Michigan and the year 1984 engraved on its inside.
"We'll wait, for now," Bale said taking his glasses off. "Take this to forensics for identification and get the Special Unit ready to leave on my command. I will call the Mayor. I think we will need the SWAT Team involved in this."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Catherine Scanlon sat silently as she observed her patient walk back and forth in the conference room. It was in Wing C, Hall 12 at the Asylum. She had been recently transferred from New Jersey State and came from a long line of cops who had seen it all. Instead of choosing continuing the family tradition, she chose to be a doctor because she wanted to help the less than fortunate and not be a part of it. The way she thought about it, police only exacerbated the situation with their brute force. She wanted to be more hands on, so to speak. As a cop you could not do that. You cannot communicate with people using guns and a loud voice. They were people, not animals that had to be trained.
Psychotherapy, on the other hand, was an art form into itself. Each patient was a subject waiting to be discovered. To her, they were pieces of a puzzle that had to be handled a certain way. Each person was individually wrapped with their own unique set of circumstances and psychoses. Cops treated real life individuals no different than dirt between their toes. You could not enforce the law and get desired results by doing that. This was human life no matter where it came from. The only thing that stood between her and real rehabilitation were the state regulations. That was true except in Grimoire Xmyles's case, for the only thing that stood between Grimoire and rehabilitation was…Grimoire himself.
Grimoire Xmyles was a special case. The man could not be classified. It was as if he had personified all known disorders but at the same time he did not. It was easier to categorize amoeba than the man standing before her. The tall, thin chalk skinned man was a very exotic specimen, indeed. It was as if he defied classification. Carolus Linneas, Charles Darwin and Erik Erikson would have a field day with him. The key word was consciousness and Grimoire, being the performance artist he was, showed more signs of premeditation that were consistent with a performer who changes his roles and tonight, for reasons she couldn't understand, she had become the star, or unwilling volunteer in one of the Phobia's wickedly staged plans…
…like Dr. Edmund Seigfried, who has not been seen in months. Or Helen Highwater, an intern who was supposedly murdered under his care; not to mention almost the entire staff of the recently reopened asylum.
She sat there quietly observing her client, noting the subtle movements using perception and body language to hint at the clown's state of mind. Rule one of psychology therapy one zero one: study your subject's behaviour and distinguish the patterns. The patterns will allow you understand…and predict.
"…..and so that's how I disposed of the idiot. Fed to the very same dog he owned. And you think the dog cared? NO of course not! Because it's all about survival." Grimoire concluded. His rabid arm waving was reminiscent of her Jewish stepmother's at Passover dinner. "But you have to admit that it was a clever ending. Just imagine what his son is going to tell mommy when he explains why daddy is not coming for dinner"
Grimoire cleared his throat between giggles. "Mom…my dog ate my homework" and wait for it, Grimoire thought "…and my dad." The Phobia then exploded in laughter.
"You are a very creative individual, Mr. Grimoire…" Catherine started slowly. Although she tried to treat him like a human being, she still could not stomach his slasher film like violence as he spoke about his latest spree with the enthusiasm of a film studies student who overestimated their endeavours.
"Creative is such an overused word thrown around so casually these days, my dear, it is almost tragic…" Grimoire said casually as he walked to and fro in the small room, pacing around like lion waiting for its keeper at the zoo.
"What do you mean, casual, Mr. Grimoire?" she said with all the calmness she could muster. The clown scoffed.
"The arts are not appreciated like they used to be, it seems," Grimoire said as he glared at the dusky skinned doctor sitting before him. Grimoire looked at her like she had made an obscene hand gesture. "Now I know how Benvenuto and Cellini felt like. They were so unappreciated for their time…." Grimoire moaned in mock fashion.
She made a mental note she intended to add to her journal later if she survived this: Grandiose sense of entitlement, delusions of grandeur to make up for the emptiness in his soul. He is a misunderstood artist and in his twisted mind, murder is just another form or art. It is a form of expression, the way he rationalized it. That was a dangerous word. Dictators rationalized the deaths of millions of people but that did not make it okay.
"I understand that art is subjective Mr. Xmyles but I do not think removing my colleague's finger constitutes art," Dr. Scanlon said calmly. She wanted so bad to break down the clown one by one into little pieces and analyse every bit, but now the secret was survival: Keep him talking long enough so he would not turn on you.
"But art is also about expressing the inner self and I did express myself, my dear, in case you did not notice. I was making a statement!" Grimoire declared proudly. He patted himself on his chest. Catherine noted a beautiful rose on his chest lapel.
It was a sign of old world grandeur.
He had the charm of Fred Astaire and the sophistication of Cary Grant. It was hard to ignore the animal magnetism that this man possessed, she had to admit.
"You can make a statement without hurting anyone, you know…" she said calmly.
"Ah ah ah, you see… THERE is the problem. Anybody can make art like that. I take the stakes a little bit further and push the limits, like a real artist, and create a masterpiece. Besides, there is nothing that a little ice, a thick towel and a tourniquet cannot fix." Grimoire said carelessly.
She made another mental note. Total disregard for life or the well being for the rest of the world. To him, real life flesh and blood, breathing human beings did not count because they were no different than marionettes. They were mere props in his worldly stage.
"So explain to me how taking off Mr. Carter's finger becomes a masterpiece?" Catherine protested as she tried to rein the emotion in her voice.
Grimoire's emerald green eyes glared at the sun toned woman sitting before him. She was about to receive an education that she was never going to forget.
"Anger, my dear is a very powerful brush and I am angry that Mr. Carter did not take my requests for more toilet paper seriously. Number two, red is a very rich colour, often associated with the most base of passions and pathos! Royalty such as myself and it is associated with the very thing that allows you to breathe, walk and talk! Rembrandt prefers shadows and light, Monet prefers splashes and brushstrokes, me, I prefer haemoglobin on my subjects. It makes for a far more, lively expression, don't you think? You can't tell me that you do not find appreciation in Saturn Devouring His Children by Goya, don't you?" the clown cooed.
Grimoire took a moment to catch up his breath and he continued explaining. "It is my God given right to express myself. Should I not do that, then I would turn to more dangerous behaviours and repression is very unhealthy for a person like me. Repression is like poison to me, doctor. Just ask the good Doctor Seigfried’s widow. She knows of the things I can do to people when they try to suppress me."
Catherine remembered the reference. Dr. Seigfried had concluded that curing Grimoire Xmyles would require to deny the patient any means of expressing his…artistic talents. Once deprived of what fuelled his fantasies, the doctor reasoned, his brain should have opened to other more positive and constructive ways of handling his psychoses. It was him who suggested art therapy for the clown. It should have opened him to alternative forms of therapy. Instead, it turned out to be a big mistake for Grimoire thought it would be much better to cut out Dr. Seigfried's tongue and to cut of each of his finger's one by one. Grimoire Xmyles laughed as he recalled this assault because in his mind, he had stripped this once respected lecturer and Nobel Prize winner of his most precious assets. He was not reduced to a mere vegetable, in a sense. This was a fate worse than death.
"Dr. Seigfried knew you were talented but he thought he could channel those talents for more positive things," Catherine said with a calm voice as sweet as honey, making sure he appealed to the Phobia's ego.
"Sweetheart, please stop rubbing my ego." Grimoire said snidely. "It just sparks my inspiration and I still need you…alive."
"I am afraid I do not understand…" Catherine Scanlon said nervously. Her throat was as parched as the Sonora Desert.
"Positive is subjective, just like art. What's positive for you and the idiot masses of this city is not exactly what is positive for me."
"And what could be a positive result for you?" the doctor said as her breath quickened. This conversation was making a turn she was not too sure she could handle. She was sort of glad that she could sneak in ethics.
"That it makes me happy. And I'm happy when people laugh…" the Phobia giggled, "…to death. Tell me something dear, you think having HIV is positive?" The doctor shook her head. "Well, for me, is the most side splitting thing in the world. It's the immutable proof that anything that is alive will expire, so why not just laugh at death instead of stressing over it? Life is like a bowl of cherries and instead of thinking it's the pits, why not savour it? Even better, why not make death…a form of art? It's only logical, you know? Look at that painting about the college seminar that uses a corpse fresh from the gallows. Why not make death an educational one as well?" Grimoire said with a toothy grin.
"Enough!" A dark husky voice sounded off. The clown's attention shifted towards the welcomed intruder.
"About time you showed up. I was about to put a pencil in her eye!" Grimoire cackled. "She was boring me." The clown ran his thin fingers into his green patch of hair.
Mighty Kid glided into the small quarters. Although the place was about one hundred feet in diameter, Mighty Kid's presence added an aura of stuffiness to the place, an aura Grimoire Xmyles picked up and savoured, like a freshly baked apple pie.
"Out, get out!" He ordered the doctor. She acquiesced without question. Now, it was as if time had stopped for the two of them. Grimoire Xmyles sat down and stretched his long, lean legs onto the table.
"I feel so special," the clown cooed. "You came, you finally came! Did you get my gift?" The clown batted his eyes. the superhero remained silent, glaring at the Phobia. "Of course you did. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, but you don't seem impressed."
"I don't think sending dismembered body parts is a way to make a positive gesture, especially after you destroyed that opportunity several years ago." Mighty Kid said darkly.
"Why it is that Van Gogh does it and everybody adores him and when I try to imitate the master, all I get is your ungrateful mug glaring at me?" Grimoire seethes.
"That's because he was not a psychopath like you!" Mighty Kid said growing more and more visibly impatient.
Grimoire let out a generous chuckle.
"My dear sweet Kid, if one is an artist, then they have to be a little off the kilter, don't you think?" Grimoire said while waving a bony finger at his captor. "The best people are a little off the head! I'm just the white rabbit showing you down this hole and you will not even take my hand."
"It's not the same. You are not an artist, Grimoire, you are a beast!" Mighty Kid spat back.
At that point, the clown leaned back before propping himself up. His large blue trench coat almost rivalled the cape that his enemy donned. He reached over for a small block of chalk and started to play with it by shuffling it between his fingers.
"I figured it would come down to something like this." Grimoire sighed as he walked towards The Mightiest Hero in Fathom. "You think I will just walk back to my cell after your little visit and have a chat about the game over poker and chips? There are a few things you need to learn before this ends."
"I'll make it easier for you if you cooperate," Mighty Kid said warningly. "You wanted my attention, I am here."
"I don't like easy and this is just the first lesson." Grimoire snapped as he crushed the piece of chalk in his hand and in a split second, blew the contents from his hand onto Mighty Kid's face. the Defender of Justice tried to hit the clown missing him by an inch, and then felt a burning sensation along his tear ducts and lungs. Breathing became laboured and then painful. Mighty Kid recognized the symptoms: Grimoire's toxin or at least one of its many variants. The Phobia must have found a way to turn the gas into a solid form.
The last thing he saw was the clown's feet on the floor and the last thing he heard was his voice. "And you fail this one."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"Ugh…"
The haze wore off more or less quickly as Mighty Kid started to regain consciousness. His mind slowly recollected the last moments he was awake. Immediately, the gaunt chalk white face of the clown came into his mind. He tried to move his leg but found that he was bound like a trapped animal for a hunt. He found out that the same was true for his arms as well. He had been tied down on some sort of hard surface and stripped of his utility belt and his most precious advantage: mobility.
"You look so cute looking all helpless like that," Grimoire snickered. Mighty Kid turned towards the direction of the caustic voice. "I wouldn't resist that if I were you, you see. Any subtle movement and the cables lash on a little tighter, like a boa constrictor." Grimoire moved forward, walking out of the shadows and into the light. Mighty Kid had wished that the clown had stayed in the darkness for the last thing he wanted to see now was the clown hovering over him, mocking him by just standing Detective started devising an escape plan in his mind.
"You don't seem happy," the clown said in a soft voice. It was the most chilling thing Bruce had ever heard for the clown never spoke with such tenderness.
"And you're enjoying every minute," Mighty Kid snarled. The smile in the Phobia's face widened. "I don't think I'll have a say if I itch or feel numb, right?"
"Hmm, let me get that for you then!" Grimoire said with utmost enthusiasm as he pulled a wireless remote control out of his pocket and pushed a button. Electricity vibrated and tickled throughout the superhero's body, tensing, testing his muscles and endurance against his binds which responded by tightening around ankles and wrists. "Electrotherapy has always worked for me. It will numb those pain receptors." But not before the fun begins, Grimoire said to himself. He licked his lips in a devilish fashion.
Mighty Kid panted heavily after the electricity was interrupted. "Did that took care of your itch?" The clown chuckled as he hovered over The Mightiest Hero in Fathom, gazing at the most human part of Mighty Kid's face. "I hope it did, because I have bigger plans for you." The harlequin cooed.
Grimoire reached down and placed his hands on Mighty Kid's profile. The other man twitched and squirmed as soon as the clown touched him. It was like being exposed to an acid. Yes, it was flesh and bone against his face but Mighty Kid would have preferred hot wax over his stomach than this kind of contact.
"Ah, silent treatment," Grimoire cooed. "Now, Kid, is that any way really to fix burnt bridges?"
"There is nothing to rebuild!" Mighty Kid ordered, his voice cut between gasps. "You're making it all up in your head!"
Grimoire's face contorted in a delicate manner. "I feel offended. After all these years of you chasing after me, I would have thought that you and I--."
"In your dreams!" Mighty Kid roared as he pulled on his binds only succeeding on making them tighter. He could feel the pull on his joints that threatened to dislocate his clavicle and tendons.
"And what do you know of my dreams? They really don't have to end like they always do: me with a black eye or two, few broken ribs and you on the giving end." Grimoire mused. He sat down by Mighty Kid's feet and turned to face him. "I know I'm a little bit twisted, but that doesn't mean that I am not capable of changing my ways."
"You won't change! You're not fooling anyone!" Mighty Kid responds, firmly and knowingly.
"Now, hold on a second. You act as if I don't have a sensitive bone in my body. Well, I have got news for you, Sherlock Kid, I do. I really do. For example, did you know that it drives me absolutely bonkers to have my shins tickled when Harley and I….well, you get the idea."
Mighty Kid stared ahead. He did his best to suppress the bile that threatened to erupt. The last thing he wanted to see was envision Grimoire Xmyles in such a manner. The thought was just as repulsive as seeing himself defenceless in the presence of the maniac.
Grimoire caught the twitch in Mighty Kid's face. "Now you seriously don't believe me, do you?" Grimoire chirped.
"Why would I? You're a pathological liar. Your truth is as inconsistent as the myriad of lies you have spilled throughout the years."
"But I am consistent with you, am I not?" Grimoire reached out and ran his delicate hand across the Defender of Justice's face. "And I'm not a liar…I just adapt to my environment, like….water." The Phobia nodded as if to reaffirm his statement. "Yeah, I just mould to the needs of the moment and like a good artist…improvise. I am always in a state of metamorphosis, like a good performer otherwise I get stale like bread or bad 80s music." Grimoire cackled.
"You're completely out of your mind." Mighty Kid said and with that, he was greeted by a slap from the clown on the face. Mighty Kid growled softly, and the Phobia wagged a warning finger.
"Hush you! The artist is talking!" Grimoire hissed then cupped his ear. "Ahhh, I can almost hear the muses whispering at my ears perking up my intellect to create the most magnificent work of art ever conceived. My fingers tickle, Kid, I need to get to work. Not a moment to lose." Grimoire queried softly, as he turned around towards a large table were some boxes were nicely arranged side by side.
Mighty Kid rolled his eyes. Just put up with it and try and wriggle out of these cables. They were tearing into his Kevlar and he could feel a pinch in his wrists and wondered if the Phobia had designed the cables to go through the armour and the skin. He needed to find a way out and fast and one of the first things he would do was wring the Clown's scrawny little neck.
"Remember the time when my gags were more, how shall we say, trite and corny?" Grimoire asked from within one of the boxes he was searching, his voice reverberating in the hollow cardboard. "Remember those gags that involved robbing banks and puns that would make Shakespeare cringe? Oh, we had fun then but even then, you can only take the joke so far. Natural selection favours those that can adapt and evolve."
"There you go, talking about change again," Mighty Kid spat back as he worked attentively on the binds holding his right arm. "Change psychoses. You're starting to sound like a broken record."
The clown looked slightly taken aback but paid no mind to the Defender of Justice's word and went back to his search. He was missing the point.
"You can change but still maintain the same basic ingredients and still keep the soul. Like always, you're blind to what is in front of you. I will show you I've changed." Grimoire said in a casual manner. There was a small hint of that piercing falsetto. It was a soft, almost calm timbre to it.
"Yes, for the worse." Mighty Kid said with a sneer. He finally found a weakness in the Phobia's trap. "And you seem proud of it."
"Of course I am. Don't you understand our relationship? I am the Yin to your Yang, the white to your black, the crackers to your soup. The worse I am, the better you are. That's why I do the things I do. All for you, dear." Grimoire's giggle echoed in the box.
"Then I suppose I should be thankful for all the people you have killed or maimed." Mighty Kid said sardonically.
"Yes, show your appreciation. See? I knew you would get it sooner or later." Grimoire moved to the next box beside him "Oh, here it is."
"You can talk all you want, but the only time you really change is when you are having one of your psychotic mood swings and even those are predictable." the Defender of Justice said bitterly.
"My spidey senses are tingling. Am I sensing some doubt, Kid?" Grimoire cooed as he approached the bound Knight. He ran his hand down Mighty Kid's face again. Watching him try to avoid Grimoire's gloved hand tickled the clown pink. "Believe me. After today…you'll be convinced that I am a totally renewed and changed clown. You can have my word for it."
"If this is one of your mind games, then out with it." The words tempted the clown like catnip. With a white bony finger the Phobia traced the chiselled features of the Detective's face and smiled. He then straightened himself up and ran a carefree hand through his green curls. With a mischievous wink at his bound prisoner, Grimoire stepped back about ten feet and it was then that Mighty Kid caught a better glance of the clown's attire…though he wished he hadn't. He caught sight Grimoire's low cut vest which exposed a bony white chest.
"My, I love an enthusiastic volunteer!" The Phobia said as he sensually undid his trench coat. Like one of those strip tease shows, the coat revealed the thin pale chest sprinkled with small scars he had accumulated during most of his criminal career. Most of those scars had been courtesy of the man now bound to the table. Mighty Kid noted that Grimoire Xmyles had not only stop wearing one of his expensive suits, but had also exchanged his purple pants for a pair of black leather pants fit so tightly against his body, his 'assets' were now emphasized and outlined in detail. Mighty Kid looked away to check his progress with the binds in his right arm, but suddenly felt his muscles and ligaments tense again.
"And you thought I will not notice you are working hard on that right arm, eh Kid?" Grimoire said giggling childishly as he approached the electrified figure that now was at the mercy and whim of his remote control. He played with the amplitude of the current and the superhero changed the tempo of his dance under each new setting. Grimoire's giggle slowly started to escalate when he saw the superhero's eyes narrow into slits. It was his nonverbal way of communicating discomfort. "Are you cold? Awww, let me warm you up a little. I do feel a little draft, don't you?"
Grimoire turned the dial to the max setting, left it there for a few seconds and then finally turned it down and then off. He walked over the bound man that now panted heavily the table, with his head to the sides. He let out a low moan.
"Hey, Kid!" The Phobia grabbed the tip of one of the ears in the cowl and shook it violently. The man under the cowl gurgled something unintelligible. The Clown Prince shook the cowl again. "What? Did you say something, Kid?"
"Damn you." Mighty Kid let out in a puff of hair releasing the last of his strength to annunciate the words then drifted into unconsciousness. This phone was for now temporarily out of service.
Grimoire ran a tender hand along the chest plate and felt the subtle movement with each breath and sighed in relief. Good, breathing was always a good sign. He then patted the armour and started to undo the binds. "Great. I see you're ready for part two."
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The darkness lifted in a jolt of pain that forced him to shake violently against his bind as the skin over his chest felt to have burst on fire. He opened his eyes and quickly searched for the reason of his pain and on his chest he discovered a very fresh red wound that still throbbed painfully. In Grimoire Xmyles's hand he discovered the weapon that was responsible for the cut. It was a very large bull leather bullwhip.
"Wakey, wakey, Kid." Grimoire greeted with a threatening sway of the whip. Mighty Kid looked around and realized they were definitely not in the same room as they were before and that he had lost the top part of his armour, exposing his broad torso shamelessly to his captor who savoured the view.
"Where are we?" Mighty Kid asked as he surveyed the rest of this hidden fortress which was illuminated dimly by the light of over a hundred candles arranged throughout the floor and furniture. "What have you done?"
"An old office space someone forgot. Actually, this used to be Markmill senior's office. I thought you would appreciate the change in attire." Grimoire Xmyles modelled the black leather vest he now chose to wear. A red rose bud adorned the vest's lapel. "Since things are about to heat up I thought you could benefit from the extra…draft?" Grimoire giggled. "But does that really matter now, Kid?" Hyenas laughing sounded less scary.
Mighty Kid looked around and noticed that they were alone. Good. Anything that was to occur within the corridors of these walls was a secret that should remain with him and only him. The detective also noticed that he had been moved to what seemed a different table modified with metal bracelets to snare his wrists and ankles and keep them in place should he try to make sudden movements. He tried the shackles which didn't give an inch. Great. It was back to square one.
As the Phobia approached him, Mighty Kid caught a scent from the air. It smelled like primrose oil. It was coming from Grimoire Xmyles. the superhero looked at the Phobia dead on as the Clown hovered playfully over his face.
"Do you like it? My ex never liked ‘Obsession’ by CK on me. She said it was too pedestrian." Grimoire yawned. At that moment, he skips past Mighty Kid and retrieves something; a dinner lady’s trolley which clattered as it rolled along the floor. Mighty Kid noted four large wax candles burning on top of the rickety table. Their combined light almost as bright as the one from the hundred smaller candles scattered throughout the office. What exactly the clown had in mind, he did not want to know.
"Oh and these?" Grimoire said, as if he had read the superhero's mind, motioning to the hundred of little aforementioned candles. "The lights are broken and if I were to have them fixed, they would be too bright. I find that this is more appropriate for the occasion." Mighty Kid did not want to know what thought processes went on in the clown's mind. His brain was like a freeway breaking off into several places. It was best to just endure the clown's idea of fun and not give into his demands, for now. When he was free then he would give the clown just desserts but for now, he had no choice but to submit to his wishes.
At this point, the clown grabbed one of the large candles and got on top of the platform where Mighty Kid was being held captive, sat over his prisoner's stomach leaning forward until his face was just a few centimetres from the superhero. Grimoire Xmyles slowly slid his crotch down the hero's stomach and the leather of his pants gave away a painful moan as he stretched. He was making himself comfortable but it was obvious that he was not interested in sitting comfortably as he appeared to enjoy having Mighty Kid under his body. He set the large candle beside the captive's head. Mighty Kid took note of the clown's long and skinny arms that emerged from a very tight fitting black leather vest. They were well built. Not twigs like some of the trashy tabloids and TV shows liked to sensationalize. They were well sculpted and they gave the skinny clown some leverage. His whole body was lithe and long but not razor thin or emaciated.
"What was that thing you said about me not able to change?" Grimoire said holding his weight on his lean arms as he hovered over the vigilante, "You also said I had become predictable. Tell me my dear, is this what you were expecting me to do now?" The clown cooed. He leaned down and ran his tongue on the other man's chin. Mighty Kid spat at the clown's face. Grimoire wiped the spit with a purple satin handkerchief. "Now, we won't need lubrication, unless of course you think we need to get a little more…physical?"
Mighty Kid shook a little harder at the suggestion. He hated such filthy language.
"You are such a beast, Kid. That is what I like about you. You might hide all those feelings under the cold Kevlar, but I know that underneath, you are very passionate…and intense." Grimoire giggled and turned around. Grimoire's green patch of hair made him look almost like a palm tree in contrast to his midnight black get up. Grimoire's heels accentuated his long legs. Mighty Kid mentally caught himself for processing a thought. He always knew that Grimoire Xmyles was a brilliant man who projected that intelligence in the wrong direction. He did not want to admit that the clown was…attractive outside of his traditional get up.
The clown searched a container beside him for something. He fumbled through objects in the bag. Mighty Kid in the meantime tried to wriggle out of his situation. He was not going to give the clown the upper hand. That had to be put on hold for now, when he saw his reflection on the broad blade of a knife glinting playfully in the Phobia's hand.
"Now, this won't hurt if you hold still." Grimoire said softly. Mighty Kid could never take the clown's words at face value. He moved. The clown sighed.
"Well, don't say that I did not warn you." Grimoire said as he dug the weapon into flesh. Mighty Kid could feel the sharp jagged edge go against his skin, delineating the pectorals with the tip and leaving a red welt in its path. Grimoire moved then to the chest area, paying special attention to the most sensitive parts which he tenderly outlined with his weapon. Mighty Kid cringed at the touch. It pinched at first but it eventually turned into a burning sensation as he moved the knife thought that sensitive spot and then up his muscular arms. The Phobia finally started to demarcate the abdominal musculature with the same dedication. Mighty Kid tried pushing away from the knife when Grimoire pressed hard. It drew a small amount of blood.
"Well, I told you to hold still but you didn't believe me!" Grimoire said with an air of impatience. "An artist's work is never done. Now the sculptor must sign his work." Grimoire said grabbing the large candle he had brought to the table. The wick was almost totally submerged in a pool of molten wax. With a giggle, the Phobia tilted the candle over Mighty Kid's torso, drawing a large letter J in green hot wax over the chest and abdomen of his captive. the superhero gasped as the wax hit his exposed skin, but refrained from giving the Clown the satisfaction of seeing him in pain by grinding his teeth.
Once the Phobia had completely delineated his signature, he blew the candle and then blew on the wax solidifying in the broad chest. He malevolently blew cold air over the exposed nipples, expecting the superhero to shiver under the arousing sensation. Nothing happened. The Mightiest Hero in Fathom just stared at him, his eyes cold sapphires behind the dark cowl. Grimoire let out a disappointed grunt and used his nails to dig deep on the hardened skin stripping away the wax from the superhero's chest and leaving swollen red tracks in their path.
Grimoire Xmyles then turned around and began to levy Mighty Kid's table and continued to do so until he met the other man face to face. Now, they were at eye level and Grimoire caught the brilliant orbs of blue underneath the mask. They were deep like the sea in contrast to the clown's green ones which bespoke a wild uninhibited passion that lurked beneath the surface.
"Why?" Mighty Kid bellowed. Grimoire responded with a low bit of chuckles before he replied.
"What? Can't you predict my next move?" The Clown cooed with a wide toothy smile
""If you intend to use those tools to torture me into submission then you can forget about it." Grimoire responded with an unholy hoot of laughter.
"I am not going to torture you, silly!" Grimoire said with a wide smile. "Just a little change in the routine, that is all." Grimoire added casually. The clown placed his hand on his mouth and chin, looking as if he was studying Mighty Kid as if he were a fascinating display at a museum.
"Then what are all these devices for? I doubt you are going to leave them there for display." the Defender of Justice said sourly.
"Tut tut tut," Grimoire said in a bored expression. "Like always, you are always thinking you right. You think you have me all figured out like a Rubik's cube." Mighty Kid grumbled. It was one thing when the clown was one step ahead, it was quite another when he rubbed it in his face. "I am not going to torture you, Kid. That is boring and trite."
"Then what are all those other toys for, a tea party for Nathan Saniti?" Mighty Kid jerked.
"Shush!" Grimoire demanded with a slap on the face. "Kid, why do you take your time to build these muscles? Do you use elephants as weights?" Grimoire said softly as he ran his hand along Mighty Kid's thick arms.
"I do it so that I can catch criminals like you and break your bones." Mighty Kid said quickly. Grimoire smiled.
"Ah ha, and how do you know when it is working or not?" Grimoire leaned in. His hooked nose was close to Mighty Kid's.
"When I have the pleasure of feeling the pain go through your body." Mighty Kid said finally. Grimoire stepped back and put his hands on his thin hips.
"Ah ha! You see, there's the answer to your riddle!" Grimoire said thoughtfully. "The operative word in that sentence is 'pain'! Life is pain. Pleasure is pain and I am about to indulge in one of life's sweetest pleasures!" Grimoire said in a low growling voice. "You had all the fun breaking me before. It's about time I returned the favour." Grimoire turned around and proceeded to grab a whip. It was perhaps the first step in a long night.
"This is where your training will be thrown out the window. You're in my playground now, so it's my rules. You have any questions? Then refer to the manual." Grimoire said darkly. His green eyes narrowed. His face gave off an air of aristocratic arrogance. "Oh, that's right. There is no rule book for this game."
Mighty Kid shook once again in a violent manner, making the shackles rattle under him. Grimoire walked back to the table and grabbed the bull whip which he swayed menacingly beside him.
"That was the wrong thing to say, Mighty Kid" Grimoire said warningly before he proceeded to strike the larger, taller man with the first violent blow. A large red cut formed over the superhero's abdomen. "You should know better."
The crack of the whip pierced at the other man's skin. Mighty Kid winced but did not let out a verbal signal. It had to be kept that way. Grimoire Xmyles smiled.
"I caught that subtle mouth gesture, Mighty Kid. Don't think that I missed it." Grimoire said with a warning of a finger. He proceeded to continue with another blow. He aimed back for a maximum hit. The crack was thunderous. Mighty Kid's body snapped at the contact with the air and leather. The pressure point was immeasurable. It produced the desired effect but he made a mental note to keep it under control. If the clown caught any hint of pain, then that means he would have won. He could not win this game. He could never win.
The bull whip produced sharp tension on The Mightiest Hero in Fathom's body but he told himself not to give in. He was stronger than this. He was in control of his body and what his body felt. At best, they were annoying tickles. That's all that they were. That is how his mind processed them. Annoying tickles was the low point, muscle cramps when he lifted weights was the highest. He had to endure. He looked down, with his eyes closed and fists clenched. He felt another blow from the whip hit him. It was like the knife. He could feel the sting in his fresh. When Grimoire found that Mighty Kid was not responding after the fifth and sixth hit, he decided to up the pressure. He put down the bull whip and grabbed a cat o'nine tails.
"Kid, how many times have you broken my ribs? Six, seven times?" Grimoire sneered when he started to whip Mighty Kid again, this time the cat o'nine tails left bloody marks every time it hit. "Ten? Naughty boys must be punished!" The bull whip was supposed to tenderise his prisoner, now the cat o'nine tails allowed the juices flow. To Grimoire it was like hitting a piñata and he now wanted the candy. The cat o'nine tails was supposed to snap him into submission. Like a hungry dominatrix who was not satisfied with the responses, Grimoire continued whipping the other man.
His lungs were laboured, as if they had been carrying a mountain on his back. His muscles jerked and stretched to where they felt like they were about to tear. Mighty Kid maintained his poise. The only clue that he had felt the pain was through his clenched teeth which the clown could not see, at least not yet. Right now, it was he who held the power. Grimoire Xmyles was still trying to attain it and take it away from him. He was the one that was desperate, judging by his blows which became more frequent and came down with more force. That in itself was proof that the clown was losing.
"You deserved it every time. You know how much pain you have caused?" Mighty Kid shouted back. He was greeted with yet another blunt force of air and leather. "The only way to stop you…is to break you." Mighty Kid panted.
"Did you say banana? I didn't hear you!" Grimoire said in a sing-song voice. At this point, Mighty Kid felt as if he had pulled the weight of two bull elephants. His muscles were in spasms and were threatening to tear under the stress. It was not the worst he had been through. This was just a warm up, he thought. Pain is only on the mind. It stung. But this was not the end of it.
"Mmmm, stubborn little cunt, aren't you?" Grimoire licked his lips between heaves. He marvelled at Mighty Kid's endurance but he was not done. He had proven to be a frustrating case but the clown was determined to get to that soft spot he had yearned to touch and he craved it badly. He wanted to find that soft and wet spot that would make the man opposite from him beg. There were more surprises in his bag of goodies and he was going to go through with them one by one. Grimoire went up to admire his handiwork. He wiped away the specks of blood. His hand tenderly brushed aside the grime and dirt.
The muscles were chiselled. It was as if Michelangelo had come back from the dead and created the beautiful specimen standing before him. Grimoire ran his index finger onto a nipple before he touched the taut stomach before him. He marvelled at this work of art. Too bad it needed some upgrading.
"Oooh, this feels too hot." Grimoire said to himself but it was obvious he wanted The Mightiest Hero in Fathom to hear him Grimoire then turned around to a small green container and pulled out a block of ice. He returned and set the ice block on the superhero's chest, rubbing against the welts the whips had made. "Yes, I think this is a good spot." Grimoire pressed an ice block onto The Mightiest Hero in Fathom's wounds. No, he was applying cold pressure onto him.
Ice water would be next.
Mighty Kid groaned and prepared to take the next blows in pride. He was not going to give the clown the satisfaction of knowing that he was breaking him. That was a warm up. It would only get worse. Even if he talked the clown would ignore him or come up with some excuse to do so.
Mighty Kid suppressed his anguish to tolerate the clown's method of torture. The tingles produced by the clown's touches made his mind focus on the cooling almost healing aspects of the exchange but not before he felt the almost burning feeling the block produced when he was left too long on a sensitive part.. It reminded him of the feeling he got when he felt a muscle spasm. It meant results, it meant that it was working and that was good. He had feeling which meant that he was conscious.
But this was not good. This was the opposite of that. This was pure madness. Grimoire was turning a sacred and private act into an act that unpurified it.
"It's not exactly Liquid Nitrogen, but it will do." Grimoire smiled. Grimoire began to rub the block up and down Mighty Kid's torso, waiting for a minute response to the touch. "It's just a little cool down before the next, eh?" The clown smiled devilishly. Mighty Kid could do little but to put up with the clown's game. He focused his mind in an image of his distant memory.
Something.
Anything.
Away from here.
Away from Xmyles.
Away from the pain.
"If you are doing this because you want something secretive then you are mistaken," Mighty Kid said rudely. Grimoire gazed at the man with subtle contempt.
"You think I want something as mundane as your identity? You could be the milkman underneath all of that and I still wouldn't care." Grimoire said with tenderness as he continued rubbing the icy block on the other man's stomach. Mighty Kid's hands clenched at Grimoire's talented administrations. The clown caught Mighty Kid's limited utterances. That silence was loud. "You're so frigid. What's up?" Grimoire said calmly.
"You're trying to pry me open and you ask me that?" Mighty Kid barked back. How dare he be so casual?
"I just want to see if you can keep up with me. You're lucky that there aren't any others around. I would be quick to make them my ducks in a row, you know…"
"You're sick and twisted." Mighty Kid growled through clenched teeth.
"Tell me something I DON’T know…" Grimoire said sardonically. "You're so icy; perhaps you need to remedy that, Mighty Kid." Grimoire said in a twisted manner. He then managed to proceed with presenting The Mightiest Hero in Fathom with the next method. It was a meat brander. It had an eerie colour of orange as it glowed and hissed.
As soon as Grimoire applied the burning hook onto the other man's skin, Mighty Kid let out a low groan. It was only a fraction of what he really felt like letting out. This created a hissing sound. The mark would be permanent. It was burning skin and muscle. Not bone, at least. This was only pain and pain was temporary. Pain was only a state of mind. That‘s what he kept telling himself. Pain would come and go.
But it would not stop.
"Does it tickle?" Grimoire asked before he cackled. Mighty Kid regained his composure. He tried to ignore the burning sensation on his muscle. It was just over the area where Grimoire ran the block of ice. He felt like he could not breathe. He tried to apply a form of Buddhist philosophy that stressed the separation of the mind and of the body." Tell me Kid…you like it rare or well done?"
Grimoire took away the brander from Mighty Kid's body. He noted the area where the burn marks made their imprint, just under the rib cage. Now, he was his. This was a mark of possession and Grimoire looked at it with pride. Like a rancher brands a cow, Grimoire Xmyles had made his mark on Mighty Kid's body. Now everyone would know that he was his and when Mighty Kid looked into the mirror he would know who he belonged to. The clown sucked in his lips and savoured the imprint. He traced a finger onto the area where the tissue was sensitive. Mighty Kid winced at the clown's touches.
"You don't like my touch?" Grimoire asked kittenishly.
"I don't like you touching me period!" Mighty Kid spat back.
"Why, I don't have AIDS, I don't have cancer, I don't have the bird flu. What are you so afraid of?" The harlequin pressed on. the Defender of Justice turned away. "Are you afraid of intimacy? Are you afraid you might like this?" Grimoire cooed softly. The clown jerked his arm and pressed the meat brander onto the other man's stomach, he was enjoying the scene. He was bringing Mighty Kid to his knees and there was nothing he could do about it. Now, he just needed to hear the magic words. He wanted the verbal confirmation that he was bringing Mighty Kid into submission. Mighty Kid twisted and writhed underneath Grimoire Xmyles's weapon.
Words were useless. The clown would not hear them. If he talked, then Grimoire Xmyles would just use them against him. At this point and time, Mighty Kid's attention focused on the pain generated by the meat brander.
"Capsaicin is not going to fix that, I am afraid…" Grimoire crooned. He took off pressure from the brander until it lifted completely off Mighty Kid's flesh. It stuck momentarily onto Grimoire Xmyles's weapon.
At this point, Mighty Kid's breaths were heavy. They were the kind of breaths one would hear after an intimate romp but these were not the sounds of pleasure. They were desperate, almost defeated but not quite. His body had put up with a beating. He had been through several Crisis events, he had duelled with the most skilled and deadly of fighters, and he had trained his body for the most punishing of assaults. Grimoire was coming close but not quite. At this point, he could still make it back to the car and put it on auto. The salt from his sweat created a stinging sensation into the scars.
"Having fun are we?" Grimoire said in a sarcastic fashion.
"We, who is we?" Mighty Kid spat back. Grimoire sneered.
"It's my playground, it's my rules!" Grimoire said with a voice laced with pride.
"Did you add all these contraptions so that you can cheat, Grimoire? Is it because you know you will lose if you fought the REAL way instead of relying on shortcuts?" Mighty Kid coughed.
Grimoire Xmyles's green eyes tensed. The fact that Mighty Kid had called him weak was an insult to his manhood. He was a skilled fighter, true but physically he was not match for him. He had to make some improvements and use some short cuts in physical combat. On an intellectual level, they were equals and that always resulted in a power struggle. Grimoire needed to prove to Kid that there was something that he had that the other lacked. This was his domain and this was where he was going to bring the other man to his knees.
Grimoire turned around but instead of turning towards his box of goodies, he instead grabbed a pair of black gloves from over a nearby table. He rubbed the palms together and a bright spark of electricity bridged between the Phobia's hands. Mighty Kid recognized Grimoire Xmyles's new weapon: a modified version of his deadly joy buzzer. It was obvious that he was playing with 10,000 volts of trouble.
"Just for that rude remark, I'm going have to teach you a lesson, Kid!" Grimoire hissed. He proceeded to walk towards the other man.
Mighty Kid saw the blue electric current between the two hands and tightened his jaw as he prepared mentally for the worst that was to come.
"Did you seriously think that that was a good idea?" Grimoire said coolly.
"It's true," Mighty Kid coughed. "You won't stop until you get what you want which is my head on a lance."
"A bit graphic but you read my mind." Grimoire smiled. "Now let's finish this, shall we?"
"If you think you will get anything by frying me with electricity you are wrong," Mighty Kid said positively.
"I will take that risk," Grimoire declared and proceeded make contact with the other man's skin. The gloves bridged the current and the superhero's body tensed against the touch.
Mighty Kid could smell his skin as it burned. His skin. The electricity was cooking him from the inside out, but he still tried to maintain composure. He could hear the sizzle from the current. His concentration was boiling over. Grimoire moved his hands along the entire length of the Detective's torso, entertaining his touch in certain sensitive areas. The skin let out some visible smoke. Mighty Kid shook but he still maintained his poise. This made the clown testy.
At this point, Mighty Kid let out a scream. Grimoire relished it like a favourite flavour of ice cream. It was a confirmation that he had won. All evening, he internalised the pain. He suppressed feeling and now, he was letting it out. Like a volcano exploding, Grimoire savoured Mighty Kid submitting to him, to his pain, to his touch.
Mighty Kid knew he couldn't take this much longer. The calibration was throwing his natural body rhythm out of tune and it will soon interfere with his heart leading him to cardiac arrest. Any longer and he would go into shock.
"You're like Stretch Armstrong, you just won't break!" Grimoire declared. He added some slight pressure to the current. At this point, Mighty Kid's mind was out of whack.
In a split second it was over. It felt like an eternity. He was not moving. The most dangerous game was the shortest.
Only seconds ago, Grimoire laughed as he savoured Mighty Kid letting out the verbal confirmation that he won that night. He brought Mighty Kid to his knees. Unfortunately, that victory would be short lived.
"Kid?" Grimoire said softly.
There was no sound coming from the other man. It was as if his soul had ebbed from his body. He stood there, looking lifeless. The clown's green eyes widened.
"Helloooo? Mighty Kid?" Grimoire prodded on. He pinched his cheek and slapped him a few times. The clown sneered. "No, really…wake up!"
Mighty Kid was barely conscious when he heard the clown's voice. It was desperate, almost tender. His breathing was far below the usual pattern. It was weak. His muscles felt like putty and were atrophied of any activity. His heart was at a delicate state. He was conscious but the clown did not note it. He pressed his head against the burly chest. There was barely a heartbeat he could detect.
"No, no, no. Come on…wake up!" The clown said in an emotionally charged voice. "You were not supposed to break!" he screeched. He was his favourite ball of yarn. He was the clown's favourite toy. No matter how harshly he treated it, no matter how many times he threw it across, no matter how rough he was, it was something that he still cherished. The clown immediately undid the cables. The clown replayed the tape in his mind. He hated himself for not being observant. His favourite toy had broken and he desperately wanted to fix it. He wanted to have that joy back in his life now, but for now, that spark was out and he was angry. He had been deprived of the one thing that gave him the greatest pleasure and now it was gone.
As he did so, Mighty Kid's eyes fluttered open slowly. He caught the emotion in the clown's green eyes. They bespoke worry, desperation but most importantly, feeling. These were traits he never associated with him but after tonight, they would be forever imprinted in his memory like the scar on his stomach.
Grimoire Xmyles looked up and caught the other man regaining consciousness and sneered.
"Get out," he ordered. He turned around and crossed his arms across his skinny chest. Mighty Kid coughed. The confirmation was deafening. "Leave now." Grimoire ordered. He turned around, making sure that the other man did not catch a glimpse of his face which was contorting into bitter and angry one. "Don't you EVER play me like that again, comprende, Kid?"
''Your hostages…" the superhero gasped between laboured breaths.
"There were never any hostages. It was only you and me." Grimoire said letting out a disappointed snort. "Now get out. NOW!"
Still dazed and disorientated, the Defender of Justice ignored the clown's words and proceeded for the exit, his consciousness and mind were coming back into focus.
As he stumbled away, Mighty Kid replayed the image in his head over and over. Grimoire Xmyles's eyes which usually bespoke insanity and were as dead as glass hinted at a tortured soul tonight. This evening, he saw the clown at his most vulnerable and he was not the one who had to endure multiple methods of punishment. What he wanted the most turned out to be the vilest thing for him. His pride and arrogance after he saw that the passion in his eyes was just a front. It was not a hallucination from his psycho-shock therapy. It was ephemeral at best but it was there. It was as genuine as the scars on his skin. Grimoire might not have hurt if he was stabbed in the leg, but his sentiments were rattled at the possibility of the Defender of Justice taking his last breath by his own hand.
Death means the end. The end of a game that Grimoire did not want to stop playing. But there was the stark realisation in his mind that one day, Grimoire would become tired of playing with one toy and move on to the next.
For Mighty Kid, he didn’t know how to take this news… should he be thankful that Grimoire isn’t done playing?
Or would Death be a blessed release?
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“You left me to die…”
“You left me to die…”
“You left me there, Dade. You left me amidst mangled metal to the mercy of fate alone. You could have ended it all.
I’ve seen dozens of people like you in my lifetime, claiming to be craziest thing to come along since pineapple on a pizza.
It is becoming more and more commonplace to use insanity as a mere scapegoat to escape the accusations made against oneself. You call yourself ‘Lunacy,’ yet there is some sort of justification or logic that you have to outline for every single thing that you do. If you have to provide exposition for your supposed psychosis, it doesn’t mean you are crazy; it just makes you an attention-whore.
This isn’t the first time that we have come to blows, is it Dade? No. Many a time we’ve danced with The Devil in the pale moonlight. Even back then you just could not stand being compared to someone like me; the measuring stick when it comes to madness. Which begs the question; why would you even want to associate yourself with me in any capacity? Let alone a competitive one. Why would you insert yourself into my business by assisting Chris Page win the West Coast Rumble. Was it because someone ‘crazier’ than you took the spotlight away from what should have been your most defining moment to date? Was it because I encroached on your territory? Or is it simply because you see me as a threat that is in need of eradication?
The truth is far simpler.
You don’t want me here.
But I am here…
And there is nothing that you can do to me that will make me change my mind.
All you have done since the West Coast Rumble is try to portray me as a victim of Anarchy. Countless sneak attacks, thwarting my plans and making me look vulnerable. Yet, the one minute I take control, you are overwhelmed and you fall back into a state of disrepair.
Shall we dig a little deeper?
Do you recall the likes of Jason Twisted? Lunatic? Nathan Saniti? How about someone like Tomoko Hanahara, or her ‘demented’ alter-ego; Yui. Isn’t it ironic that you, the alleged ‘craziest’ man in the federation is not the first name that springs to mind when a comparison is made in terms of insanity. There have been countless ‘Grimoire Xmyles clones,’ but I’ve never heard of any ‘Lunacy clones.’
Except maybe The Jackdaw and Brother Maylock, who have the combined charisma of a plate of mouldy cheese.
You claim not to care about this, but I know that it secretly eats at you. It must do. But what I needed was PROOF…
So I went on the Internet and I found this…
I almost forgot this even existed…
After watching this a dozen times for the last week or more, I scoured the WGWF archives. Maybe it has slipped your mind, but some time ago, maybe 2012, you sought a crown that would coronate you as the ‘King of Crazy,’ the throne you still believe to be sat in all this time later. And yet, you refuse to accept your peers statistically evaluate you alongside someone like me, despite winning that crown? It is like buying a supercar to parade your wealth, but loathe the ogling eyes of the public and challenges made to you by rebellious street racers. It is like having a tattoo on your wrist that you keep covered up at all times.
As I once told Tomoko Hanahara; you cannot copyright psychosis. You have mistaken the voices in your head that you believe to be enticing you into madness for the insecurities and traumas from your past that you are just too weak to let go. Instead of conquering your own psyche, you put on a façade as a means to hide yourself from the truth. You even have to go so far as to hide your face behind a mask; because you are ashamed of the man that you have become. A soldier’s pride never leaves him even in his darkest hour. I can only imagine the torture you must have endured at the hands of the Al-Quada captors that you were documented as being taken by…
…it must have been MARVELOUS!
You cannot choose to be crazy. I’m not masquerading in a chicken suit anymore. I’m not whispering sweet nothings into Lucas Felix’ ear. I might be sick in the head, but at least I can be honest with myself.
That is the one thing that you fear. Above any else, the phobia that haunts you day in, day out is the possibility of somebody figuring out what makes you tick and putting the pieces of your fractured mind back together like a jigsaw puzzle.
And I’ve got you all figured out, Dade.
You are not the embodiment of lunacy. You’re just a bitch!
Tell me. What do you know about the man behind Grimoire Xmyles?
I’m not talking about what I do, what I don’t do, why I do what I do, yada, yada, yada. If Dade Winston is Lunacy, then who is Grimoire Xmyles?
And before you say Lucas Felix; no. There is a strong misconception that Lucas Felix and Grimoire Xmyles are one and the same. I inspired him during his mental breakdown, absolutely. Did I get in his head? Clearly. But is my real name Lucas Felix? No. Sorry to burst that little bubble.
There’s a reason that you don’t hear from that jumped-up little fuckboy anymore. He tried to be something that he’s not and, by doing so, all of his credibility went straight down the shitpan. After all, there’s nothing quite like the original. But even he managed to steal your thunder on more than one occasion.
With that in mind, Dade, you have no idea who the fuck you are going up against.
I have chosen to not disclose my past to the public. Because I’m not an idiot.
You’d don’t know who I am. But don’t feel disheartened. Nobody does. Even I don’t know, sometimes…
But I can see that you are struggling, so let me put some things into perspective for you. It is because of YOU that, for the first time in a long time, I have a goal. I have motivation. I have a desire. All I wanted was to create carnage in the main event on the grandest stage on the WGWF calendar.
But you stuck your nose in…
Then I thought I could manage the same feat, albeit on a slightly smaller scale, by positioning myself within the Intercontinental Title tournament.
But the stuck your nose in…
I thought I could finish Anarchy off once and for all, taking you to the middle of nowhere and tear you to shreds…
But you stuck your nose in…
…but no more. At Wrestle Wars, I’m going to cut that fucking nose of yours off and shove it so far up your own asshole that you’ll still be able to smell what you had for yesterday’s lunch.
I should apologise. Maybe I used the wrong tone there.
I’m not upset.
Not even slightly.
In fact, I’m delighted!
Because you’ve made me realise that it doesn’t matter what stage I am on. I can add my own decorations to make it stand out above the rest. By causing the WGWF to implode on itself, it will crush the dreams of every WGWF star who wants to accomplish greatness into dust. In the way that Lee Harvey Oswald will forever be immortalised for the assassination of John F Kennedy, the WGWF will be remembered as the federation that Grimoire Xmyles burned to the ground. Nobody remembers what JFK did during his presidency. If they do have that sort of recollection, they certainly don’t talk about it.
After all, there really is no place like home.
Isn’t this something that you wanted a long time ago, Dade? You wanted the WGWF to wither and die. So why have you not gone ahead and made good on your promise?
You’ve grown comfortable. You’ve become complacent. And you’re too much of a fucking pussy to go through with it. Instead, you make excuse after excuse that delays the process; like focusing your efforts on somebody that, in reality, you want absolutely nothing to do with. You cannot live up to your own expectations. After all, with your ‘goddess’ Alyce Starchylde inches away from this company’s top prize, for you to rip it away from her by destroying this federation would be blasphemous.
And people say I’M a fucking throwback? Starchylde is a throwback OF A FUCKING THROWBACK! And you’re WORSHIPPING her!?
What a retarded mongoloid fuck you really are, Dade. There is a fine line between Crazy and Stupid. And you’ve just bought yourself a one-way ticket to “Fucktard Central.”
I will end you.
I will end your brethren.
I will end your queen.
I will end your world.
I will end your stupid fucking existence.
I will end everything…
I will end the WGWF.
But hey, once I’m done dismantling this shithole, you could always fuck off back to Pure Class Wrestling and fail there instead. I hear Dominator is on an undefeated streak there. If a bumbling lummox like him can go on a tear in a place like that, you’d fit in as snugly as an extra small condom on Chris Page’s cock.
You might think that I am shooting myself in the foot by doing this. After all, if I were to destroy this company, where else would I go? Who else would employ me? It echoes the sentiments of John Cable. Surely I am a threat to all that he loves too. Why isn’t he trying to stop me.
Because even though he’s only got one fucking brain cell, he still has one brain cell more than you, Dade.
You think I need to be employed by the people that run this dump? Or anywhere else for that matter? I don’t have a need for money. I have no set address. I have no family to nurture, no metaphorical bacon to bring home. I wear the same clothes. I am like a leaf being carried in the wind. I go wherever my legs take me. I get by doing things my way; a way that most people cannot get their head around.
However, it seems to be because of this, that I have obtained a reputation akin to that of an ‘anti-hero.’ No matter what I seem to do, the collective fans seem to actually admire my life’s philosophy as if I’m some kind of ‘guilty pleasure,’ re-enacting the fantasies that nobody has the balls to go out and do themselves in fear of the ramifications; be it the mental hauntings that would follow or the punishment handed to them by the law. I don’t give a fuck whether people want to cheer for me, worship me, or even emulate me for that matter.
But it certainly seems to be something that bothers you, Dade.
It is always the negative that outweighs the positive. It is always the light that has to struggle out of the darkness. It is always good that has to fight evil, for evil itself never goes out of its way to get into such a confrontation.
I guess that means that you are going to have to step and be the hero, Lunacy. You are going to have to assume the role of the hero that you never wanted to be; at least not the side you that will be opposing me at Wrestle Wars.
You have already failed your country as a Marine. Now, you fail your queen and your kingdom as a lesser lunatic. You are not looking down the barrel of a gun so much as you are thrusting your head into a cannon with a lit fuse. If you though last week was bad… if you thought the obliteration of The Dark Shadow was a spectacle… you haven’t seen shit yet!
“You left me to die…”
“You left me to die…”
“You left me there, Dade. You left me amidst mangled metal to the mercy of fate alone. You could have ended it all.
I’ve seen dozens of people like you in my lifetime, claiming to be craziest thing to come along since pineapple on a pizza.
It is becoming more and more commonplace to use insanity as a mere scapegoat to escape the accusations made against oneself. You call yourself ‘Lunacy,’ yet there is some sort of justification or logic that you have to outline for every single thing that you do. If you have to provide exposition for your supposed psychosis, it doesn’t mean you are crazy; it just makes you an attention-whore.
This isn’t the first time that we have come to blows, is it Dade? No. Many a time we’ve danced with The Devil in the pale moonlight. Even back then you just could not stand being compared to someone like me; the measuring stick when it comes to madness. Which begs the question; why would you even want to associate yourself with me in any capacity? Let alone a competitive one. Why would you insert yourself into my business by assisting Chris Page win the West Coast Rumble. Was it because someone ‘crazier’ than you took the spotlight away from what should have been your most defining moment to date? Was it because I encroached on your territory? Or is it simply because you see me as a threat that is in need of eradication?
The truth is far simpler.
You don’t want me here.
But I am here…
And there is nothing that you can do to me that will make me change my mind.
All you have done since the West Coast Rumble is try to portray me as a victim of Anarchy. Countless sneak attacks, thwarting my plans and making me look vulnerable. Yet, the one minute I take control, you are overwhelmed and you fall back into a state of disrepair.
Shall we dig a little deeper?
Do you recall the likes of Jason Twisted? Lunatic? Nathan Saniti? How about someone like Tomoko Hanahara, or her ‘demented’ alter-ego; Yui. Isn’t it ironic that you, the alleged ‘craziest’ man in the federation is not the first name that springs to mind when a comparison is made in terms of insanity. There have been countless ‘Grimoire Xmyles clones,’ but I’ve never heard of any ‘Lunacy clones.’
Except maybe The Jackdaw and Brother Maylock, who have the combined charisma of a plate of mouldy cheese.
You claim not to care about this, but I know that it secretly eats at you. It must do. But what I needed was PROOF…
So I went on the Internet and I found this…
I almost forgot this even existed…
After watching this a dozen times for the last week or more, I scoured the WGWF archives. Maybe it has slipped your mind, but some time ago, maybe 2012, you sought a crown that would coronate you as the ‘King of Crazy,’ the throne you still believe to be sat in all this time later. And yet, you refuse to accept your peers statistically evaluate you alongside someone like me, despite winning that crown? It is like buying a supercar to parade your wealth, but loathe the ogling eyes of the public and challenges made to you by rebellious street racers. It is like having a tattoo on your wrist that you keep covered up at all times.
As I once told Tomoko Hanahara; you cannot copyright psychosis. You have mistaken the voices in your head that you believe to be enticing you into madness for the insecurities and traumas from your past that you are just too weak to let go. Instead of conquering your own psyche, you put on a façade as a means to hide yourself from the truth. You even have to go so far as to hide your face behind a mask; because you are ashamed of the man that you have become. A soldier’s pride never leaves him even in his darkest hour. I can only imagine the torture you must have endured at the hands of the Al-Quada captors that you were documented as being taken by…
…it must have been MARVELOUS!
You cannot choose to be crazy. I’m not masquerading in a chicken suit anymore. I’m not whispering sweet nothings into Lucas Felix’ ear. I might be sick in the head, but at least I can be honest with myself.
That is the one thing that you fear. Above any else, the phobia that haunts you day in, day out is the possibility of somebody figuring out what makes you tick and putting the pieces of your fractured mind back together like a jigsaw puzzle.
And I’ve got you all figured out, Dade.
You are not the embodiment of lunacy. You’re just a bitch!
Tell me. What do you know about the man behind Grimoire Xmyles?
I’m not talking about what I do, what I don’t do, why I do what I do, yada, yada, yada. If Dade Winston is Lunacy, then who is Grimoire Xmyles?
And before you say Lucas Felix; no. There is a strong misconception that Lucas Felix and Grimoire Xmyles are one and the same. I inspired him during his mental breakdown, absolutely. Did I get in his head? Clearly. But is my real name Lucas Felix? No. Sorry to burst that little bubble.
There’s a reason that you don’t hear from that jumped-up little fuckboy anymore. He tried to be something that he’s not and, by doing so, all of his credibility went straight down the shitpan. After all, there’s nothing quite like the original. But even he managed to steal your thunder on more than one occasion.
With that in mind, Dade, you have no idea who the fuck you are going up against.
I have chosen to not disclose my past to the public. Because I’m not an idiot.
You’d don’t know who I am. But don’t feel disheartened. Nobody does. Even I don’t know, sometimes…
But I can see that you are struggling, so let me put some things into perspective for you. It is because of YOU that, for the first time in a long time, I have a goal. I have motivation. I have a desire. All I wanted was to create carnage in the main event on the grandest stage on the WGWF calendar.
But you stuck your nose in…
Then I thought I could manage the same feat, albeit on a slightly smaller scale, by positioning myself within the Intercontinental Title tournament.
But the stuck your nose in…
I thought I could finish Anarchy off once and for all, taking you to the middle of nowhere and tear you to shreds…
But you stuck your nose in…
…but no more. At Wrestle Wars, I’m going to cut that fucking nose of yours off and shove it so far up your own asshole that you’ll still be able to smell what you had for yesterday’s lunch.
I should apologise. Maybe I used the wrong tone there.
I’m not upset.
Not even slightly.
In fact, I’m delighted!
Because you’ve made me realise that it doesn’t matter what stage I am on. I can add my own decorations to make it stand out above the rest. By causing the WGWF to implode on itself, it will crush the dreams of every WGWF star who wants to accomplish greatness into dust. In the way that Lee Harvey Oswald will forever be immortalised for the assassination of John F Kennedy, the WGWF will be remembered as the federation that Grimoire Xmyles burned to the ground. Nobody remembers what JFK did during his presidency. If they do have that sort of recollection, they certainly don’t talk about it.
After all, there really is no place like home.
Isn’t this something that you wanted a long time ago, Dade? You wanted the WGWF to wither and die. So why have you not gone ahead and made good on your promise?
You’ve grown comfortable. You’ve become complacent. And you’re too much of a fucking pussy to go through with it. Instead, you make excuse after excuse that delays the process; like focusing your efforts on somebody that, in reality, you want absolutely nothing to do with. You cannot live up to your own expectations. After all, with your ‘goddess’ Alyce Starchylde inches away from this company’s top prize, for you to rip it away from her by destroying this federation would be blasphemous.
And people say I’M a fucking throwback? Starchylde is a throwback OF A FUCKING THROWBACK! And you’re WORSHIPPING her!?
What a retarded mongoloid fuck you really are, Dade. There is a fine line between Crazy and Stupid. And you’ve just bought yourself a one-way ticket to “Fucktard Central.”
I will end you.
I will end your brethren.
I will end your queen.
I will end your world.
I will end your stupid fucking existence.
I will end everything…
I will end the WGWF.
But hey, once I’m done dismantling this shithole, you could always fuck off back to Pure Class Wrestling and fail there instead. I hear Dominator is on an undefeated streak there. If a bumbling lummox like him can go on a tear in a place like that, you’d fit in as snugly as an extra small condom on Chris Page’s cock.
You might think that I am shooting myself in the foot by doing this. After all, if I were to destroy this company, where else would I go? Who else would employ me? It echoes the sentiments of John Cable. Surely I am a threat to all that he loves too. Why isn’t he trying to stop me.
Because even though he’s only got one fucking brain cell, he still has one brain cell more than you, Dade.
You think I need to be employed by the people that run this dump? Or anywhere else for that matter? I don’t have a need for money. I have no set address. I have no family to nurture, no metaphorical bacon to bring home. I wear the same clothes. I am like a leaf being carried in the wind. I go wherever my legs take me. I get by doing things my way; a way that most people cannot get their head around.
However, it seems to be because of this, that I have obtained a reputation akin to that of an ‘anti-hero.’ No matter what I seem to do, the collective fans seem to actually admire my life’s philosophy as if I’m some kind of ‘guilty pleasure,’ re-enacting the fantasies that nobody has the balls to go out and do themselves in fear of the ramifications; be it the mental hauntings that would follow or the punishment handed to them by the law. I don’t give a fuck whether people want to cheer for me, worship me, or even emulate me for that matter.
But it certainly seems to be something that bothers you, Dade.
It is always the negative that outweighs the positive. It is always the light that has to struggle out of the darkness. It is always good that has to fight evil, for evil itself never goes out of its way to get into such a confrontation.
I guess that means that you are going to have to step and be the hero, Lunacy. You are going to have to assume the role of the hero that you never wanted to be; at least not the side you that will be opposing me at Wrestle Wars.
You have already failed your country as a Marine. Now, you fail your queen and your kingdom as a lesser lunatic. You are not looking down the barrel of a gun so much as you are thrusting your head into a cannon with a lit fuse. If you though last week was bad… if you thought the obliteration of The Dark Shadow was a spectacle… you haven’t seen shit yet!